2025-07-11, 10:31 PM
There was a time when community service lasted 13 months. 1997 was one of them. The following story takes place during this time. Or more precisely, in a tiny period within this extended year of community service.
I was in the internal medicine ward of a church hospital, which isn't relevant to the story, but should at least be mentioned. Incidentally, no one should think that in a church institution of this kind, there are three crucifixes in every hospital room and the priest performs the operations. Doctors, patients, nurses, and other members of the staff are normal people "like you and me," only the administration is controlled by the institution, which believes in higher powers.
During my first ten weeks on the ward, I had plenty of time to get a taste of all the day-to-day processes on such a ward, and in some cases, the word "taste" was taken quite literally. The range of tasks ranged from caring for patients to managing a ward kitchen to in-house patient transport. Hey, actually, a whole book could be written about that.
So, after completing the first two and a half months, my induction course was on the agenda. A business trip of the utterly pointless category: In the time I'd already completed it, I'd truly become more than familiar with everything important, but the legal requirements must be met.
The central point of contact for civilian service members at the beginning of their careers (well, beginning...) was the civilian service school in Schlöhne, Brandenburg. Since a five-story hospital with an adjacent nursing home has more than one alternative service member, I tried to gather information about this trip from colleagues who had already completed this adventure.
It was interesting that although my colleagues in my community service year had started their service a month later, they had already completed their introductory course. Carsten, whom I had known for a long time from my school days and who worked in the retirement home attached to the building, told me that the community service school would be about two kilometers from the town of Schlöhne itself. Schlöhne itself, he warned me, could be described with much goodwill as a quiet village. "The phrase 'dead ass' has its origins there," Carsten explained after his return to civilization. He had the pleasure of being delegated to this course just a week before me. The community service school itself – in the middle of the forest, an isolated complex of buildings. But you would still have fun. If you could improvise... So much for Carsten's report. Well then – off to the village – fun in the forest.
To put it in perspective: In 1997, walking around with a cell phone in your pocket was anything but commonplace, and since I was temporarily without a driver's license at the time, despite being 20 years old, for certain reasons (anyone who has ever earned their living driving a pizza delivery service knows what I mean!), my mobility on site would be extremely limited.
After all, around 200 volunteers, all male, housed in a building complex for five days—there would be some nice sights to see, as well as perhaps an opportunity or two. If the well-known ten percent rule applied, there would be about 19 other people who wouldn't mind not seeing any women for a week. An opportunity for me to possibly find the happiness of my life. However, on a scale of zero to 100, my hopes were in the low single digits.
On Monday morning, right on time for my scheduled departure, I stood at my hometown's main train station, waiting to see if any other travelers from my hometown looked like they were going to have to spend a week on an isolated piece of land in the countryside. No.
After a 45-minute journey, the local train stopped in Würmersfelde. I immediately suspected one of the boarding passengers was headed to the same destination as me. He sat down directly on the opposite seat. After the train left the station, he immediately asked me, "Are you going to Schlöhne too?" I nodded, and instantly the spell was broken. My new acquaintance immediately began to talk like a waterfall. Among other things, I learned where he was doing his community service, where, when, and how he had graduated from high school, and why his girlfriend had dumped him. Given his captivating narrative style, I could easily figure out the reason: the woman would have had to be deaf to put up with him any longer. I didn't tell him that I was 100 percent uninterested in this fact—besides, I had no opportunity to.
After I was well informed about him, I was forced to give out some brief information about myself, while keeping one or two facts to myself.
We had to change trains in Fellendorf, but had a layover of almost an hour. The weather was perfect: gray on gray, with a light westerly wind spraying fine raindrops in our faces. Moreover, the station strongly aroused the suspicion of having been spared various political upheavals. After scouting out where our connecting train would depart, we went in search of a kiosk. Sure enough, we found a place to quench our thirst for coffee.
My friend from Würmersfeld was determined to pick up some newspapers. In the back foyer of the establishment, he discovered a magazine with advertising on a table and immediately began leafing through it vigorously, much to the annoyance of the kiosk owner. "Would you mind paying for the newspaper before you read it?" the lady asked gruffly. "But it was lying on the table back there!" my thrifty companion tried to justify himself. "You have absolutely no business being there!" the lady explained. Gritting his teeth, he paid for the paper so he'd have something to read for the rest of the train journey. I didn't grit my teeth; perhaps that would give me some peace and quiet.
We went to a waiting room, the interior and exterior of which made an imposing impression. From the outside, it looked as if King Barbarossa had sought refuge there. The interior walls resembled both a dating site and a political discussion platform; a kind of fixed internet café, only without service and online access. Football fans from half of Germany had immortalized themselves here, letting us know who would be promoted or relegated. Political statements for almost every major party, naturally including unprintable notes for political opponents. Passengers passing through had noted down details of their travel itineraries. Bavarians, Prussians, Saarlanders—half the nation seemed to know this waiting room at Fellendorf train station.
After thoroughly studying all the notes, it was time to change platforms. While we waited for the regional express to Crossberg, we made assumptions about our fellow passengers. We came to the conclusion that some of those we observed might well have Schlöhne as their destination. Sure enough, a young man, whom we suspected of being a leather fetishist based on his clothing on the platform, approached us on the train: "So, where are we going?"
Now that our Schlöhne travel committee had grown to three members, a lively conversation ensued. Our third member was named Michael, a motorcycle enthusiast without a driver's license (hence the leather upholstery) who worked as an assistant caretaker at a youth hostel. In Crossberg, where we also had a short stay, a fourth member joined us. He had curly hair and quickly revealed himself to be a real cheerleader. He introduced himself as Torsten.
Then a small argument arose about how to make the most of the stay. Leather-Micha (that's the name Torsten gave him) had an urgent need to browse the press shop for relevant literature (on motorcycles). Rene from Würmersfelde also wanted to buy a daily newspaper, while Torsten and I desperately wanted a cup of coffee. So, an agreement was reached: we four volunteers would temporarily split into interest-based pairs.
Shortly before departure, a small problem arose: Despite intensive search efforts, we were unable to find the designated platform for the train to Schlöhne. A railway employee directed us to the eastern end, from there a shunter directed us west. After passing through two tunnels, crossing three overpasses, and wandering through the main station hall at least three times, we accidentally discovered a map that showed us the right way. Lo and behold, we had already trudged past the superbly hidden entrance to the platform three times.
On the train itself, it was now an open secret who would be getting off in Schlöhne. A minibus was waiting for us there, carrying a total of 15 volunteers.
I studied the course tourists present and came to the conclusion that it would be a boring week if the other 175... but wait and see.
We passed the village, and after about two kilometers, the bus turned into a fenced-in area—our destination had been reached. Some expressed the not entirely serious suspicion that we had been kidnapped by the Bundeswehr. Indeed, the Civil Service School's resemblance to a barracks was undeniable...
We unloaded our luggage and entered the main building of the complex. Here, too, I had the impression that the past few years had passed by without a trace, similar to the Fellendorf train station. Then it was time to allocate the rooms. The lady in charge explained: "There are smoking and non-smoking rooms." Since Rene was a non-smoker, Torsten had already found someone with similar hobbies, and I didn't know anyone else, I shared a room with Leather-Micha and mentally prepared myself to become a motorcycle expert in the coming days.
After receiving our keys from the experienced room assignor, we went to our shared quarters. To do so, we had to cross a sort of roll call square, which was currently being used as a parking area by civilian volunteers. This square was surrounded by three different buildings, arranged in a clearly arranged position and radiating architecturally valuable construction—at least, that must have been the case in the past. One of the buildings, which had actually made the best impression, was closed for construction work.
After making our beds, we returned to the main building, where we were told: "Here to the main hall, gentlemen!" There, the lady of the house, the director of the facility, began bombarding us with various welcoming and instructive phrases. First, the front rows of seats, which had remained empty for some unknown reason, were occupied. The program was then presented in detail, constantly interrupted by humorous interjections from the conscientious objectors. At some point, after several minutes, Lady Chef finally got to the crux of the matter: the division into four different seminar groups. I had already completed my crux of the matter and had spotted a total of three people who, at first glance, were worth a closer look. And two of them were sitting right next to each other, exchanging rather unmistakable glances upon closer inspection. Hidden, but not entirely invisible, amorous glances that showed me I wasn't alone here. Or was I?
Each of the four future group leaders was given the opportunity to briefly explain what they would be dealing with. An older lady, whom I suspected had already been working in education for several years, especially in other political systems, offered to explore the topic of schools in the GDR. Yes, she seemed predestined for it. Trainee number two had an unavoidable topic in store: right-wing extremism in Germany. Even better was the topic the third lady had in store: addressing current political problems. Then the only man appeared on stage. His way of presenting the topic stood out somewhat from the others. Jurisprudence in Germany, that was the title of his course. It didn't sound interesting either, but it's the tone that counts. In any case, we quickly agreed that none of this had anything to do with our community service positions. (Or did it? How would I be punished if I gave someone the wrong pill? Not at all; a community service worker isn't allowed to hand out medication.)
After a brief discussion, the entire group I had traveled with decided on the young man, who seemed relaxed and fresh. But much more importantly, we had to satisfy our initial hunger. Since the actual canteen was located in the building, which was closed at the time due to construction work, we were allowed to eat in the in-house pub. Over the course of the course, we often wondered how this public place could have existed without conscientious objection. The clientele consisted of 98 percent civilian volunteers. The closely spaced tables created an almost "romantic" atmosphere, which, given the male ratio of 100, was naturally disliked by the majority. Extreme care had to be taken not to accidentally grab a noodle from your neighbor's plate.
After dinner, we gathered in the seminar room, where they were initially looking for four volunteers to take a different course: There was an acute shortage of space. Our young seminar leader offered to draw lots, but four volunteers volunteered to switch. I breathed a sigh of relief: Chance had ensured that both the supposed couple and candidate number three were stuck in my course. Now we could get started.
Falko, our boss for the next five days, first explained how he envisioned the itinerary. This plan was noted and immediately accepted by everyone. After a brief introduction to the topic, the first day was already over, or almost over. After dinner, another general meeting was scheduled to inform us about the possibilities for leisure activities, which in turn discouraged us from doing so... The motorized Schlöhne tourists among us could be recommended the discos or ice hockey rinks in the nearby towns. For the others, only the in-house options remained. For example, three televisions invited us to a cozy get-together. There were also pool tables, foosball tables, and specialized rooms for pottery (?!) and bands. Indeed, a group was found that decided to produce music by the end of their stay, including Rene and Torsten. Incidentally, no one heard anything about the results - except for the band members - obviously not everyone is "Born to be a Superstar" - at least not from this October '97 Schlöhne band.
Maybe better this way?
A special service was provided by the security guards, who patrolled the grounds from 6:00 p.m. onwards, making sure that none of the staff were stolen. They lent out all kinds of games (Memory? Monopoly?), as well as cues and billiard balls. After exploring all the options, I decided to devote myself intensively to one of the televisions.
Thanks to clever planning by UEFA and the DFB, I, as a self-proclaimed football fan (yes, really!), had the opportunity to get involved with the ball during my stay in Schlöhne, since there was no one else to keep me busy. Monday was the second Bundesliga, Tuesday and Wednesday the UEFA Cup and Champions League, and Thursday was the meeting of the clubs of the Cup Winners' Cup competition (which still existed back then; younger fans may want to leaf through football history books).
The evenings starting at 8:15 p.m. were secured, but before that? Only on Tuesday did the broadcasts begin as early as 4:00 p.m., and the seminars ended around 3:30 p.m. But even then, the flexible management of the ZDS (Civil Service School) had solutions ready for the remaining days.
Every afternoon, various trips to various attractions in the surrounding area were offered. I, along with the other three members of our foursome, opted for the Thursday trip—to an idyllic little town on a river that separates Germany from Poland. The geographical location was an interesting factor from a shopping perspective. More specifically, the other bank is the gateway to Eastern Europe.
On the evening of the first day, several guests urgently requested to inform their relatives of their safe arrival at their destination. However, they discovered a minor problem. There was only one publicly accessible telephone on the entire site, located directly in the entrance hall of the main building. The inconspicuous device stood in a niche, and a small note was attached to its buttons: Defective. Six letters that severed our last contact with the public. On this wonderful evening, the three of us, among the nearly 150 volunteers who had arrived with cell phones, made a fortune. At outrageous rates that even exceeded those of Telekom, anyone who needed to could send their messages via radio. (As already mentioned: back then, it wasn't a given that anyone with a small box could call anywhere at any time—sometimes perhaps it was better that way.) In retrospect, it's astonishing that there was already complete cell phone coverage in the middle of the Schlöhner Forest at that time.
I decided to walk the two kilometers to the village one afternoon and not participate in the "Mobile Phones Make Millionaires" campaign.
I was in the internal medicine ward of a church hospital, which isn't relevant to the story, but should at least be mentioned. Incidentally, no one should think that in a church institution of this kind, there are three crucifixes in every hospital room and the priest performs the operations. Doctors, patients, nurses, and other members of the staff are normal people "like you and me," only the administration is controlled by the institution, which believes in higher powers.
During my first ten weeks on the ward, I had plenty of time to get a taste of all the day-to-day processes on such a ward, and in some cases, the word "taste" was taken quite literally. The range of tasks ranged from caring for patients to managing a ward kitchen to in-house patient transport. Hey, actually, a whole book could be written about that.
So, after completing the first two and a half months, my induction course was on the agenda. A business trip of the utterly pointless category: In the time I'd already completed it, I'd truly become more than familiar with everything important, but the legal requirements must be met.
The central point of contact for civilian service members at the beginning of their careers (well, beginning...) was the civilian service school in Schlöhne, Brandenburg. Since a five-story hospital with an adjacent nursing home has more than one alternative service member, I tried to gather information about this trip from colleagues who had already completed this adventure.
It was interesting that although my colleagues in my community service year had started their service a month later, they had already completed their introductory course. Carsten, whom I had known for a long time from my school days and who worked in the retirement home attached to the building, told me that the community service school would be about two kilometers from the town of Schlöhne itself. Schlöhne itself, he warned me, could be described with much goodwill as a quiet village. "The phrase 'dead ass' has its origins there," Carsten explained after his return to civilization. He had the pleasure of being delegated to this course just a week before me. The community service school itself – in the middle of the forest, an isolated complex of buildings. But you would still have fun. If you could improvise... So much for Carsten's report. Well then – off to the village – fun in the forest.
To put it in perspective: In 1997, walking around with a cell phone in your pocket was anything but commonplace, and since I was temporarily without a driver's license at the time, despite being 20 years old, for certain reasons (anyone who has ever earned their living driving a pizza delivery service knows what I mean!), my mobility on site would be extremely limited.
After all, around 200 volunteers, all male, housed in a building complex for five days—there would be some nice sights to see, as well as perhaps an opportunity or two. If the well-known ten percent rule applied, there would be about 19 other people who wouldn't mind not seeing any women for a week. An opportunity for me to possibly find the happiness of my life. However, on a scale of zero to 100, my hopes were in the low single digits.
On Monday morning, right on time for my scheduled departure, I stood at my hometown's main train station, waiting to see if any other travelers from my hometown looked like they were going to have to spend a week on an isolated piece of land in the countryside. No.
After a 45-minute journey, the local train stopped in Würmersfelde. I immediately suspected one of the boarding passengers was headed to the same destination as me. He sat down directly on the opposite seat. After the train left the station, he immediately asked me, "Are you going to Schlöhne too?" I nodded, and instantly the spell was broken. My new acquaintance immediately began to talk like a waterfall. Among other things, I learned where he was doing his community service, where, when, and how he had graduated from high school, and why his girlfriend had dumped him. Given his captivating narrative style, I could easily figure out the reason: the woman would have had to be deaf to put up with him any longer. I didn't tell him that I was 100 percent uninterested in this fact—besides, I had no opportunity to.
After I was well informed about him, I was forced to give out some brief information about myself, while keeping one or two facts to myself.
We had to change trains in Fellendorf, but had a layover of almost an hour. The weather was perfect: gray on gray, with a light westerly wind spraying fine raindrops in our faces. Moreover, the station strongly aroused the suspicion of having been spared various political upheavals. After scouting out where our connecting train would depart, we went in search of a kiosk. Sure enough, we found a place to quench our thirst for coffee.
My friend from Würmersfeld was determined to pick up some newspapers. In the back foyer of the establishment, he discovered a magazine with advertising on a table and immediately began leafing through it vigorously, much to the annoyance of the kiosk owner. "Would you mind paying for the newspaper before you read it?" the lady asked gruffly. "But it was lying on the table back there!" my thrifty companion tried to justify himself. "You have absolutely no business being there!" the lady explained. Gritting his teeth, he paid for the paper so he'd have something to read for the rest of the train journey. I didn't grit my teeth; perhaps that would give me some peace and quiet.
We went to a waiting room, the interior and exterior of which made an imposing impression. From the outside, it looked as if King Barbarossa had sought refuge there. The interior walls resembled both a dating site and a political discussion platform; a kind of fixed internet café, only without service and online access. Football fans from half of Germany had immortalized themselves here, letting us know who would be promoted or relegated. Political statements for almost every major party, naturally including unprintable notes for political opponents. Passengers passing through had noted down details of their travel itineraries. Bavarians, Prussians, Saarlanders—half the nation seemed to know this waiting room at Fellendorf train station.
After thoroughly studying all the notes, it was time to change platforms. While we waited for the regional express to Crossberg, we made assumptions about our fellow passengers. We came to the conclusion that some of those we observed might well have Schlöhne as their destination. Sure enough, a young man, whom we suspected of being a leather fetishist based on his clothing on the platform, approached us on the train: "So, where are we going?"
Now that our Schlöhne travel committee had grown to three members, a lively conversation ensued. Our third member was named Michael, a motorcycle enthusiast without a driver's license (hence the leather upholstery) who worked as an assistant caretaker at a youth hostel. In Crossberg, where we also had a short stay, a fourth member joined us. He had curly hair and quickly revealed himself to be a real cheerleader. He introduced himself as Torsten.
Then a small argument arose about how to make the most of the stay. Leather-Micha (that's the name Torsten gave him) had an urgent need to browse the press shop for relevant literature (on motorcycles). Rene from Würmersfelde also wanted to buy a daily newspaper, while Torsten and I desperately wanted a cup of coffee. So, an agreement was reached: we four volunteers would temporarily split into interest-based pairs.
Shortly before departure, a small problem arose: Despite intensive search efforts, we were unable to find the designated platform for the train to Schlöhne. A railway employee directed us to the eastern end, from there a shunter directed us west. After passing through two tunnels, crossing three overpasses, and wandering through the main station hall at least three times, we accidentally discovered a map that showed us the right way. Lo and behold, we had already trudged past the superbly hidden entrance to the platform three times.
On the train itself, it was now an open secret who would be getting off in Schlöhne. A minibus was waiting for us there, carrying a total of 15 volunteers.
I studied the course tourists present and came to the conclusion that it would be a boring week if the other 175... but wait and see.
We passed the village, and after about two kilometers, the bus turned into a fenced-in area—our destination had been reached. Some expressed the not entirely serious suspicion that we had been kidnapped by the Bundeswehr. Indeed, the Civil Service School's resemblance to a barracks was undeniable...
We unloaded our luggage and entered the main building of the complex. Here, too, I had the impression that the past few years had passed by without a trace, similar to the Fellendorf train station. Then it was time to allocate the rooms. The lady in charge explained: "There are smoking and non-smoking rooms." Since Rene was a non-smoker, Torsten had already found someone with similar hobbies, and I didn't know anyone else, I shared a room with Leather-Micha and mentally prepared myself to become a motorcycle expert in the coming days.
After receiving our keys from the experienced room assignor, we went to our shared quarters. To do so, we had to cross a sort of roll call square, which was currently being used as a parking area by civilian volunteers. This square was surrounded by three different buildings, arranged in a clearly arranged position and radiating architecturally valuable construction—at least, that must have been the case in the past. One of the buildings, which had actually made the best impression, was closed for construction work.
After making our beds, we returned to the main building, where we were told: "Here to the main hall, gentlemen!" There, the lady of the house, the director of the facility, began bombarding us with various welcoming and instructive phrases. First, the front rows of seats, which had remained empty for some unknown reason, were occupied. The program was then presented in detail, constantly interrupted by humorous interjections from the conscientious objectors. At some point, after several minutes, Lady Chef finally got to the crux of the matter: the division into four different seminar groups. I had already completed my crux of the matter and had spotted a total of three people who, at first glance, were worth a closer look. And two of them were sitting right next to each other, exchanging rather unmistakable glances upon closer inspection. Hidden, but not entirely invisible, amorous glances that showed me I wasn't alone here. Or was I?
Each of the four future group leaders was given the opportunity to briefly explain what they would be dealing with. An older lady, whom I suspected had already been working in education for several years, especially in other political systems, offered to explore the topic of schools in the GDR. Yes, she seemed predestined for it. Trainee number two had an unavoidable topic in store: right-wing extremism in Germany. Even better was the topic the third lady had in store: addressing current political problems. Then the only man appeared on stage. His way of presenting the topic stood out somewhat from the others. Jurisprudence in Germany, that was the title of his course. It didn't sound interesting either, but it's the tone that counts. In any case, we quickly agreed that none of this had anything to do with our community service positions. (Or did it? How would I be punished if I gave someone the wrong pill? Not at all; a community service worker isn't allowed to hand out medication.)
After a brief discussion, the entire group I had traveled with decided on the young man, who seemed relaxed and fresh. But much more importantly, we had to satisfy our initial hunger. Since the actual canteen was located in the building, which was closed at the time due to construction work, we were allowed to eat in the in-house pub. Over the course of the course, we often wondered how this public place could have existed without conscientious objection. The clientele consisted of 98 percent civilian volunteers. The closely spaced tables created an almost "romantic" atmosphere, which, given the male ratio of 100, was naturally disliked by the majority. Extreme care had to be taken not to accidentally grab a noodle from your neighbor's plate.
After dinner, we gathered in the seminar room, where they were initially looking for four volunteers to take a different course: There was an acute shortage of space. Our young seminar leader offered to draw lots, but four volunteers volunteered to switch. I breathed a sigh of relief: Chance had ensured that both the supposed couple and candidate number three were stuck in my course. Now we could get started.
Falko, our boss for the next five days, first explained how he envisioned the itinerary. This plan was noted and immediately accepted by everyone. After a brief introduction to the topic, the first day was already over, or almost over. After dinner, another general meeting was scheduled to inform us about the possibilities for leisure activities, which in turn discouraged us from doing so... The motorized Schlöhne tourists among us could be recommended the discos or ice hockey rinks in the nearby towns. For the others, only the in-house options remained. For example, three televisions invited us to a cozy get-together. There were also pool tables, foosball tables, and specialized rooms for pottery (?!) and bands. Indeed, a group was found that decided to produce music by the end of their stay, including Rene and Torsten. Incidentally, no one heard anything about the results - except for the band members - obviously not everyone is "Born to be a Superstar" - at least not from this October '97 Schlöhne band.
Maybe better this way?
A special service was provided by the security guards, who patrolled the grounds from 6:00 p.m. onwards, making sure that none of the staff were stolen. They lent out all kinds of games (Memory? Monopoly?), as well as cues and billiard balls. After exploring all the options, I decided to devote myself intensively to one of the televisions.
Thanks to clever planning by UEFA and the DFB, I, as a self-proclaimed football fan (yes, really!), had the opportunity to get involved with the ball during my stay in Schlöhne, since there was no one else to keep me busy. Monday was the second Bundesliga, Tuesday and Wednesday the UEFA Cup and Champions League, and Thursday was the meeting of the clubs of the Cup Winners' Cup competition (which still existed back then; younger fans may want to leaf through football history books).
The evenings starting at 8:15 p.m. were secured, but before that? Only on Tuesday did the broadcasts begin as early as 4:00 p.m., and the seminars ended around 3:30 p.m. But even then, the flexible management of the ZDS (Civil Service School) had solutions ready for the remaining days.
Every afternoon, various trips to various attractions in the surrounding area were offered. I, along with the other three members of our foursome, opted for the Thursday trip—to an idyllic little town on a river that separates Germany from Poland. The geographical location was an interesting factor from a shopping perspective. More specifically, the other bank is the gateway to Eastern Europe.
On the evening of the first day, several guests urgently requested to inform their relatives of their safe arrival at their destination. However, they discovered a minor problem. There was only one publicly accessible telephone on the entire site, located directly in the entrance hall of the main building. The inconspicuous device stood in a niche, and a small note was attached to its buttons: Defective. Six letters that severed our last contact with the public. On this wonderful evening, the three of us, among the nearly 150 volunteers who had arrived with cell phones, made a fortune. At outrageous rates that even exceeded those of Telekom, anyone who needed to could send their messages via radio. (As already mentioned: back then, it wasn't a given that anyone with a small box could call anywhere at any time—sometimes perhaps it was better that way.) In retrospect, it's astonishing that there was already complete cell phone coverage in the middle of the Schlöhner Forest at that time.
I decided to walk the two kilometers to the village one afternoon and not participate in the "Mobile Phones Make Millionaires" campaign.